The question never asked
by Felidae1
Summary: Nick and Dave have a small talk about Hodges resentment towards being on the field. Secrets and pains are shared, as the trace tech recalls what happened in LA.


*sighs * Against better knowledge; I'll give it one more shot. Sorry about any inconvieniences regarding the formatting; try as I like, the site just keeps on corrupting my editing attempts.

This is a one-shot that was written in a single go somewhere about January, but has been collecting dust on my desktop ever since, due to the fact I couldnt make it flow nicely despite my best efforts. If you got any tugs or pushes how to improve it, feel free to drop me a line.

Enough excuses made and on with the story; Hodges and Nick have a little heart-to-heart after David has once again proven how good a bloodhound he is and the reason he resents to be on-field. Nothing overly romantic, just another what-might-have-happened-in-LA-fic; a few shared secrets between two scarred men. This ficlet was loosely inspired by the episode _Bloodsport(_10/05), so there might be spoilers for those who havent seen that episode yet.

Disclaimer: I dont own CSI or any related characters used in this story, nor do I make any profit of it. If they were mine, Id chain Wendy and Nick to a bed and have David do with them as he pleases*cough* sirop *cough* whipped cream *cough*

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_**The question never asked **_

Nick flipped through the folder containing the football coach murder case before him, if only to hide his nervousity.

He took a deep breath, released it with a whoosh, then carefully regarded the man sitting opposite him in his office.

Arms crossed, an air of quasi-interested ennui surrounding him, David Hodges looked very much like a teacher waiting for a student to answer his question.

Not a lab tech about to be interrogated by his shift supervisor.

Who mulled about how to approach the subject, then sighed in defeat.

Playing games was Grissom's expertise, he liked it clean and cut.

Leaning back, the Texan locked eyes with the trace tech and stated,

"So, basically, you were the one who found the murder weapon, right? At least, that's what the report says."

Hodges shrugged.

"If the report says so, then I suppose, that's how it is," he replied, allowing himself a semi-smirk.

Nick bit his lip in contemplation, then shook his head.

"I don't get it -its just...every time we put you out on the field, you somehow manage to find the most -crucial evidence without breaking a sweat," he held up a hand to stop Hodges' oncoming comment, "and often even before some of the more experienced CSIs like Greg and myself. It's like you got some kinda gift for this, y know?" The blue-green-eyed man straightened at the compliment, as Nick rubbed his brawny hands together and continued,

"So, with this..talent of yours, I can't help but wonder why? Why do you hate field work so much? I mean, it's pretty obvious that you're a natural, all bedside manners put aside, but..."

He trailed off, as he glanced at the trace lab and saw the blood drain like a curtain from the angular face. Stunned, Nick gaped at the complete lack of expression on Hodges' features; the normally vivid eyes were blank and darkened to almost navy pebbles, gazing a some point over Nick's shoulder.

"Believe me, you don't wanna know," Hodges rasped gravelly.

Taken aback by the flat, toneless voice, the brunet blinked.

"How can you tell? I don't even-"

"Believe me, you don't. It's not a pretty story." Mimicking Hodges' earlier position, Nick crossed his arms and replied,

"Try me."

There was a curt, dangerous flicker in the otherwise lifeless orbs, one that made the brunet squirm uncomfortably, then Hodges snapped,

"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."

He swallowed once, hard, and Nick could actually feel the trepidation warring within the trace tech, though Hodges kept his features perfectly schooled.

"The reason I dont like working field is not because I hate it, but because I know how dangerous it can be. I lost three friends on field. And almost my life."

Nick straightened up at that; this was the first he had heard of David being attacked on duty.

He leant forward, urging the other man to go on.

Who took another deep breath, as his hands moved to his collar and slowly began to unbutton his plaid shirt.

"I-we- after Graduate School, I joined the LAPD, because I wanted to work with the best crime lab in the country. That's when I ran into Jason Beckley, with whom I had been best friends in college. We renewed our friendship, not least because we both had decided to apply for CSI. After nigh on two years of waiting and arguing and debating with our supervisors, we were finally allowed to join the big guys. It was our very first case; a homicide northwest from West Carson. It looked like a drive-bye; drug-related, turf war, minors involved, the whole nine yards. Jason and I were ecstatic. Brett- he was our mentor- argued, that it was too dangerous to have us tag along in gang territory, but since we were hopelessly shorthanded, our supervisors overruled him and sent us out with just one CSI Level one as backup."

Hodges slipped out of his shirt, shaking his head incredulous, as he smoothed out the tee he wore underneath. Nick, too caught up in the storytelling, didn't really register the removing of the clothing item. The trace techs adams apple moved, his tenor but a hoarse rasp, and Nick could make out just the slightest tremble in the otherwise confident voice.

"It -was a trap. An ambush, if you will. When we arrived there, there was only one police officer securing the scene. It was November, wam and rainy, somewhere about eigh thirty, nine in the evening, maybe even ten. I can-t remember. Henderson- that was the CSI l, sauntered off to search the adjunctant sideroads, while Jason and I followed Brett to the car where the body had been found. The kid looked like the proverbial sieve; according to the police report, a semi-automatic, probably a Glock18, had been involved. So, we were one uniform, one CSI and two rookies on the scene in an admittedly crappy neighbourhood. After finishing the dead guy, we started picking up shells, while Brett explained to us, what we had to look out for. Then, I was just..scanning the driver's seat, I saw this shadow out of the corner of my eye, and then I heard the gunshot. I turned, just to see Brett go down like a bag of bones, this gaping hole in his stomach. The driver's window exploded, and I ducked behind the car, trying to crawl over to see after Brett. Someone's pulling my leg, I kick out and scream and Jason yells at me to stay down and then..."

Hodges was clearly fighting for composure, if the way his hand covered his mouth and worried his chin was any indication. All of a sudden, his arms dropped to his sides. Eyes, stormy and tear-rimmed, locked with dark chestnut ones.

"Did you ever have to watch your best friend's face explode before your eyes? Its not a pretty sight, believe me. I just sat there, holding Jason in my arms, crying and screaming and shouting for the police, paramedics, anyone, when I hear a gun being cocked. I look up, into the barrel of a SigSauer, and then into those cold, soulless eyes of the murderer. He grins, shoots, and my left shoulder explodes. I scream, try to scramble away, but Brett's body's blocking my escape, and he takes another shot at me. This time, he barely misses my spleen, and I realize, that he's playing with me. Im laying there, coughing up blood and he- He laughs, cocks his gun again, and that's when I hear the police officer running up to us. There's bullets flying everywhere, one ricochets from God knows where and hits me straight in the chest, knocking me over, and then the officer's dead, too. The mobster has a leg wound and favors his left arm, points the muzzle back at me. I see my life flashing before my eyes, when suddenly Brett moves behind me and shoots twice at the killer. Who takes one to the head, but not without pulling the trigger one last time and killing Brett. Then everything goes quiet, and I'm all alone in an ocean of blood amongst the dead."

Nick stared at the trace tech, more than a little shaken. He remembered how it had been, lying there in the coffin, the ants crawling over him, with no way out. Hodges' situation had been reversed, but no less horrifying; trapped in his own body, feeling his life slowly, agonizingly lazy oozing out of him, unable to get up and into safety, surrounded by the corpses of his friends and mentor...

"Where- where was the other CSI? Why didn't he get help? Was he shot, too?" he queried, voice almost failing him. David shook his head.

"No, the killer had caught him by surprise and hit him over the head with a brick. He spent two weeks in a coma and when he came to, he had to relearn just about anything from reading, writing to walking and driving a bycicle. Took him two years to make a full recovery."

Nick gulped.

"How...how long were you lying there?" Hodges shrugged.

"I dunno for sure; I was kinda drifting in and out of conciousness. The killer's friends once showed up, to see what had taken him so long. One of them kicked me in the ribs pretty hard, to see if I was still alive, but I was in shock and didnt even..react. For good luck, I must say, because they figured, if that kick didn't wake me, nothing would, and left me for dead. Sometime later, the rain set in, and I could feel the..water entering my body through my wounds. I closed my eyes, said my goodbyes...then there's light and noise around me, and people yelling and sirens and I'm being pulled and lifted and..They told me later, that I'd spent nigh on two hours there like that. Spent another three in surgery and the next two days going from unconcious to awareness and back again. And then, to top things off, I caught pneumonia."

Brown eyes widened in speechless incredibility. David gave a tight, humourless grin.

"Oh, yeah, just when my chest wound, which was basically not more than a scratch, starts healing properly, the sub-standard hygienic condition of the hospital catches my overtaxed immune system by the throat and puts me on death's row. I damn near died twice; they put me into quarantine, so now not even my friends and relatives can visit, pump me full with meds, hook me up to the respiratory machine, and that's when my pulmonary system collapses and I just stop breathing altogether. They try the whole range of CPR, and already declare me for dead when -whoops! I'm back again, shaking like a rag doll. Turns out, it was an allergic reaction to one of the antibiotics they dosed me with, but that actually did the trick and killed the germs. Almost took me out of the picture, too, but hey, I made it back, so no harm done. Three months later, I was back on the job, but..I couldnt handle the streets anymore. Guess, if Jason and I hadn't been so close, it wouldn't have...shaken me that much. Everytime I'm out there, I can see his face, and then I taste the blood and gunpowder..."

Hodges drove one hand over his face as if to remove the images from his mind. He knew, what he was going to say next would probably hurt the Texan, but he had to make him understand. Green-blue eyes searched the brunet's face, when he mumbled,

"Jason and I were more than friends, we were brothers. Kinda like you and Warrick. Being out on the field always makes me relive that moment the bullet.." He paused, his breath hitching, as he fought for control.

Nick almost choked on his tears, when he whispered,

"I know how y' feel. That night Warrick..died...I couldn't think straight. I just sat there, crying, while people swarmed around me and..I was paralyzed. Nothing made sense, and I thought I wouldn't be able t' do my job anymore. I can't even begin to imagine how it must have been for Grissom, having Rick die in his arms.."

Both sat in silence, reminiscing about the loss of their best friends and surrogate brothers.

Drawing a shaky breath, Hodges mumbled,

"Yeah, but at least you had everybody's support. Me, they just kicked me out on the streets- literally- and told me to suck it up. After the first case, which happened to be a shoplift gone bad, I could barely talk. I asked to be moved to different tasks such as burglaries or arson, robberies and such...My supervisors laughed in my face and told me to get my act back in order."

Nick's jaw almost came unhinged; he had heard that LA was a tough town, but that was just cold.

"What the heck? They actually told you to-? Damn, Cath and Gil almost took off my head when I wanted to return to field the minute I got out of therapy! Not to mention the baby-sitting the first two years; I mean, I wasn't allowed to set foot on a crime scene without at least three people playing watchdog."

David smiled, tired and sad.

"Be grateful. I wish, someone would have cared as much about my wellbeing as our folks did about you. My supervisors didn't give a damn. About five months after the shooting, I was called to a 419 down in Torrance. Same setting; shootout with three bodies, rainy night, car, single cop on the lookout..and me the only CSI on the scene. I freaked. Big time. Held it together till I got back to home base, marched right into my boss' office, pulled him outta his seat and hit him dead in the face. Then I locked myself in the locker room and bawled my eyes out. I was demoted and moved back to the lab, on doctors orders."

He was fidgeting, clawing at the seat's armrests, when he continued,

"They..tried everything to get me back on field; easy cases, desensibility trainings, hypnosis...it just made matters worse. By the time they..realized that, it had gotten so bad, that..I..I couldn't make it on my own anymore. I was forced to move in with my mother, because I- couldnt take being alone at night, anymore."

For a moment, there was the slightest of twitches at the corners of David's mouth; one Nick remembered sporting himself after the burial in moments of immense stress. For a moment, he was at a loss, what to do, but then remembered his own therapy and decided just to stay quiet and pay attention to David's every word.

"The reason I check my watch so often when on field is part of my therapy. To see, how long it takes for me to go from uncomfortable to nervous to panicked. I'm getting better, but it takes quite a lot out of me to not just bolt and run. I still see my therapist twice a month, and he says, I'm doing pretty well. I can handle indoors just fine, and even the road at daytime, when there's lots of uniforms around, but at night.."

David was hyperventilating now, and Nick leaned forward to pat his shoulder reassuringly, when the trace tech did something entirely unexpected: he tore off the gray cotton tee he still wore and growled,

"I don't need to play hero anymore, Nick. I've done so once and it cost me far more than anyone will ever know. And I don't need anyone to remind me that there are heroes out there aswell, because I'm wearing the badges of three true heroes on my body."

His eyes were burning with passion, anger and an old, unquenchable pain, even as Nick let his gaze drop to the naked chest of the elder man and bit his lip.

The scars were old, faded, but still held a slightly pinkish hue to them. One sat high on his collarbone, explaing as to why the trace tech always kept himself covered up, the second was just below his left ribcage, more of a speck than an actual scar. The third one, just two fingerbroad apart of his right nipple, was shaped like a slightly deformed half-moon. Nick could tell that it had been that peculiar angle which had saved David's life; a straight shot would have torn apart the trachea and killed the trace tech in an instant. The low tenor brought him back to reality.

"That night, one police officer and three CSIs died. And I'm not returning to the field again. Ever."

Perplexed, Nick watched in confusion as David redressed. Brows knit, he mumbled,

"Three CSIs? But..you said the other CSI survived and returned back to work-"

Hodges, who was already headed for the door, paused, then replied over his shoulder,

"Yeah. He made it back from that road in one piece. I didn't."

For a split-second, regret flittered across Davids features.

"And I'll probably never will."

Hodges was never again asked or forced to do field work again.

Fin~

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Yes, I know it's somewhat bitter, but then again, I tried to explain part of the reason David hates field work and why he is the high-browed, snarky, mean, rude, witty, insecure bastard we all love and adore -well, at least I know I do.^^

Please review, Ive been so long out of writing, I can hardly remember what a comment tastes like..!


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